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Diary: Spittal, Austria Spittal, in south Austria, was the town where my Dad was stationed just after the war (1952) as a greenhorn 18-year-old. Before he died in April 1999 we talked a lot about his life, and he told me all about his experiences as a slightly bewildered young man far from home. The excellent news is that I managed to locate the bar where he and Private 'Geordie Nutter' Loane got into a scrap with a bolshy local, which ended in the unfortunate local biting off more than he could chew. And Nutter Loane biting off part of the guy's nose. We also located the street that Dad and Crazy Man Loane ran down to get back to barracks, but couldn't see any 70-year-olds with a broken nose muttering about the British occupation of 1945-55. We did however get into a Fruhschoppen, which is a wonderful Germanic thing where all the locals gather on a Sunday morning to listen to jolly lederhosen music and drink beer. Dad would have approved. It was in the local fire station, and I mean 'in' - the engines were all parked round the back and the fire officers having a good time with the rest of us. Thank goodness it was chucking it down with rain and no fires were possible that morning. What is the Tirolean equivalent of 'Hugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew'?
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